


drunk in love

by paperlesscrown



Series: intimacies: a sprousehart drabble collection [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: F/M, Inspired by social media, RPF, Sprousehart, cole's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-04 03:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: "Nothing is fully formed except the dampness of your head pushed up against my collarbone, and your white-knuckled grip on the rail above us. There is no movement except for the sweet friction of your hips against mine."





	drunk in love

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of real-person fiction, inspired by real-life events. I have tried to write this as deftly and speculatively as I could (no names are mentioned) in order to generalise the situation as something that could happen between any normal couple in love. The work is not intended to upset or offend.

“Put something on that I can slip my hand under,” I mutter playfully into your ear as you get ready.

I should have known that you would take me literally at my word.

As I jingle my keys at the door, you look at me daringly as you stepped out into the living room, your eyebrow arched, wearing the very shirt whose hem I’d nearly torn the night before.

I wince, weakened by the sight.

_That's just fucking unfair._

...

Tonight, the celebration rages on. The season has finished and we are all collapsing gratefully over the finish line after months of long shoots and exhausting nights. I see flashes of faces that should be familiar, but in my slightly inebriated state they are mere vignettes - half-drawn sketches that are simple caricatures compared to the vivid, tangible reality of us. Nothing is fully formed except the dampness of your head pushed up against my collarbone, your white-knuckled grip on the rail above us. There is no movement except for the sweet friction of your hips against mine.

Everyone is too tipsy to fathom the secret world we have created here, right in the middle of the crowd. And anyway, I’m far too drunk, far too gone to care - I feel like I’ve ascended some higher plane where my mind has switched off and my body only becomes real as it touches yours. My lips are vapour until they graze your neck. My hands are smoke until they grip your waist. My chest is all murk and fumes until your fingers reach back to clutch at my shirt, scraping at my bare skin, setting me alight.

“This okay?” you murmur against my jaw.

“Yeah,” I breathe back. You catch my eye in the dark reflection of the tinted glass. The normally placid green of your eyes has darkened to a storm. Your lips turn up in a knowing smile as you dance up against me, taking the lead because _fuck_ , you know what that does to me.

I close my eyes to escape the rush, and grip your shirt to steady you as the bus shudders to a grinding stop. A collective cry of surprise arose from the crowd before it descended back into the usual cacophony of laughter and talking and background music.

And it’s all white noise to me.

If I concentrate enough, I can hear the one sound that I crave: the pulse at your neck, quickening as my thumb grazes the delicate skin on your lower back, exposed as your shirt rode up.

…

You’re slightly flushed when you dance. I imagine the florid blush at the base of your sternum. I imagine tracking its journey as it crept elsewhere, rendering your entire body scarlet. I imagine dragging my teeth across your bare belly.

I hold you closer. I don’t know if I can make it.

_Please for the love of god let this party end._

...

Tonight I am the darkness that envelopes you, shielding you from sight, selfishly holding your body hostage to mine.

I am the flashing strobe light that lingers far too long on the maddening curve of your waist, the alluring swell of your chest, illuminating in neon where and when and how I will fall apart tonight.

I am the pulsating music that engulfs you like an ocean, the beat that mouths its poetry upon your skin, stirring your heart and your soul.

I am the cold night air to which we are deposited as the bus makes its final stop and opens its doors, kissing your sweat away, giving relief and release and pining.  

...

“Take me home,” you whisper simply.

We leave without saying goodbye to anyone, too caught up in each other, your hand in mine. We ignore the hooting and catcalling that chase us across the street as we hail a cab.

Tomorrow I’ll apologise for pulling your hair as I lunge across the backseat to seize your mouth in mine.

…

Hands fumble for keys. We are tongue and teeth and naked desire. We barely make it past the door.

There is no music. No beats to fill the silence. No rhythm to guide your hips. The air is quiet but for the throbbing incoherence that passes between us.

But still, we dance.

And this time, it's me who leads.


End file.
